Different
by Legendgrass
Summary: "Leave. Her. Alone." "Or what?" "Or I'll f*cking shank you."


Catra is still up.

She usually is, even after the rest of her roommates have retreated into their corners of the dorm room and conked out. She doesn't mind being the only one up most nights. In fact, she likes the quiet that it left all to her. She works best in peace.

She's drawing. Her pencil scratches over the surface of her pad in her lap, laying gesture and detail wherever her deft fingers deign it to, gradually filling out the form of the subject she's trying to render—her longboard, at the moment. She's never thought to draw it before, but her art professor just tasked her with creating an ornamental design piece, and the graphic on the underside of the deck is a convenient source of inspiration. Meaning, she's just downright copying it straight onto her paper. Not like her prof will know.

She puts her pencil down and stretches her arms over her head, rolling her sore wrist and tilting her head to each side to pop her neck. She's surprisingly stiff. She knows she's been working for a while, but when she looks up at the clock and sees _11:56 _glowing weakly from its face she's mildly startled that it's gotten so late without her noticing. Apparently time flies when you're plagiarizing skateboard art.

Looking back down at her work in progress, she figures she's close enough to finishing that staying up to complete it won't hurt her sleep schedule too badly. A typical college kid misconception, she knows. She does it anyway.

She's just picked up her pencil again and resettled it in her aching fingers when there's noise from outside her door. It sounds like running footsteps, which doesn't really concern her because this is college and she's in the freshman building, so it's nothing new to hear a bunch of immature tards banging around in the hall while everyone else was trying to sleep. She considers going to get her headphones from her nightstand, but figures it's too much trouble at this point. The noise is easy enough to tune out, anyway, when she's in _the zone._

Until the footsteps don't fade. They continue, and they're getting closer. Catra spares it a thought long enough to furrow her brow slightly, but that's all before she's focused on her art again. The morons must get tired out and go to bed at some point, right?

She's unconcerned until a girl shrieks. It's hard to tell if it's a sound of distress or maybe just of excitement or really obnoxious laughter, but it's still accompanied by pounding footsteps, and Catra starts to feel her neck prickle. She lifts her pencil off the page and raises her head to face the door, devoting all her focus into tuning in just a bit closer.

A guy's voice sounds. It's shouting. Shouting after the girl. A second pair of footsteps become distinguishable from the first. Following. That definitely makes a pit open up in Catra's stomach. Was this a serious problem going on? She doesn't want to assume the worst, but things were not sounding good. She can't sit by and let some girl get accosted or worse. Her mind begins to run quick, sifting through her options. Should she call some kind of authority? Crack her door open and yell at the guy? Wake up her roommates in case they have to gang up on somebody?

She doesn't have time to think what the right course of action is before the girl's voice is piping up again, closer to her door, and though Catra can't make out the words, this time it's unmistakably distressed. The second pair of footfalls doesn't stop.

Catra's on her feet and halfway to the door before she knows what's happening. Her reaction is so swift that it hits her too late that she's still barefoot and in her pajamas, in no way prepared for any kind of altercation, and her roommates are still asleep. No backup. She feels a twist of apprehension in her chest, stops in her tracks, wonders what to do.

Then she hears from just past her door, "I said no. Get away from me!" and that apprehension is replaced by a hot flare of anger. Her fists clench. Whoever this creep was, he just picked the wrong building to stalk a girl into.

When he yells at the girl, "Come on! I've been nothing but nice to you. What are you, a lesbian?" he effectively seals his fate.

Catra pauses only long enough to pick up her keychain—the one with her pocket knife hanging on the ring—before she's wrenching the door open and stepping brashly out into the hall.

"Hey!" she barks without a second thought, two-toned eyes falling hard on the figure of the guy who jogs to a halt halfway down the hall. She's cut him off from the girl, she notes with grim satisfaction.

Her entrance earns a stunned silence from both parties. In the brief pause, Catra senses everything. She's hyperaware of the concrete floor warming her bare soles, the hairs standing on end along her arms, the slightly panicked breaths of the girl who's now guarded from her stalker by a wiry, angry young art student with hair too big for her body and scars down her biceps.

Then she breaks it:

"Leave. Her. Alone."

The guy just stands stock-still and gapes at her, apparently shocked to meet an actual obstacle in his disgusting pursuit of his quarry, which just makes him _that _much more contemptible in Catra's eyes. He's tall and fit, he's wearing a backwards trucker cap and shorts that are way too short for any straight, self-respecting male to wear, and the worst part is that she recognizes him. He sits behind her in algebra. His dull, drawling voice is pretty much a daily source of a headache, he seems to eat about nine meals a day (at least 3 of which happen in that class, loudly), and ninety percent of the drivel that leaves his mouth is dirty slurs about girls. The other ten percent is about his own dick.

It only seemed to make sense that he'd end up here.

"Or what?" he says petulantly, sticking out his square chin, looking every bit a toddler throwing a tantrum except for the patchy beard on his jaw. Catra notices now that his eyes look a little fuzzy, unfocused, like maybe he'd had too much to drink. Of course. Because nothing beats horny, gross frat boys on the weekend except _drunk, _horny, gross frat boys on the weekend.

But that isn't an excuse.

"Or I'll fucking shank you," Catra shoots back in a low, grating tone, flipping the blade of her pocket knife out with her thumb and letting him catch a glimpse of it tucked beside her leg.

His eyes bulge, and Catra would have thought that was comical if she weren't boiling with absolute fury. He takes too long to respond, so she takes a step forward, holding the knife just a bit more dangerously. He takes a step back. It's an odd picture, really: the tall, built guy backing away from Catra's scrappy little form, but unfortunately, to Catra the mismatch is a familiar one.

He gawks for another few moments and his jaw works like he's trying to find words, but nothing manages to come out before he's turning and jogging down the breezeway, throwing more than one fearful look back over his shoulder at the knife in Catra's hand.

Catra waits till he's long gone to let the tension trickle out of her trim shoulders. Her keys chink softly together as she lowers her hand with the knife, and she sighs.

A twin sigh from behind her reminds her that the girl is still there. She turns quickly and has to lift her chin to meet the other girl's eyes.

They're blue. Like, bright blue. Softened by gray. That's the first thing she notices, and the second is that the girl is really pretty, and the next is that she's really fit—and for the first time Catra feels a sting of uncertainty.

This looks like a girl who could handle herself. Her biceps are basically stretching the sleeves of her pullover. Her eyes have a spark in them and for a moment Catra wonders why it looks familiar, until she realizes that it's the look she faces in the mirror every day.

And a sign that she can definitely handle herself.

Catra's heart sinks and her cheeks flush and she wonders if she just made a huge scene for no reason at all. She closes her knife and slides her keychain into the pocket of her sweatpants. She has to clear her throat before speaking. It still burns with the heat of her fading anger. The girl's just looking at her, so she ventures, "Hi."

She knows it sounds terribly lame, but it's the best she has. All her usual slick coyness had slid away when the sounds of shouting voices met her ears just minutes ago. It didn't take much. It's all just a façade anyway.

Instead of answering, the girl continues to stare at her for long enough that Catra wonders if there's something she's missing. Her neck is feeling prickly again, but in a different kind of dread this time.

Then, suddenly, the girl laughs. It's little more than a chuckle but it's light and pretty angelic and she tips her head back to do it, which makes her golden ponytail swing hypnotically, but Catra scowls. She doesn't appreciate being laughed at. Even by attractive girls with impressive muscles and a smile like the sunrise. _Especially _by those.

One of her lips curls in a snarl of its own accord. It's such a familiar expression her face basically falls into it naturally. She demands, "What?" feeling her fist tighten around her sheathed knife. She's not about to use it on the girl or anything; it's just a reflex.

The girl's wondering smile makes her relax a little bit. "I just can't believe it," the blonde says. Her voice is hoarse from running and Catra hates that, although she admits that it sounds good on her. "You jump in and save my life and threaten to stab somebody and then you turn around and all you say is 'hi'?" She spreads her palms and then drops them again as if at a loss.

Well, that catches Catra off guard. She wasn't expecting praise. She's made sure never to make that mistake again. Now she doesn't know what to do with it—not sure whether to be indignant, embarrassed, or proud. Then the entirety of the words sink in and her thoughts ram to a halt, stuck on one phrase. "Save your life?" she echoes, her voice rising, quavering slightly at the implication of that. "You mean he was going to—"

"No, no! I just mean," the girl is quick to try and reassure her but doesn't manage to actually sound that reassuring, "he was being a creep, for sure, but he wasn't trying to _hurt _me. At least not—" She breaks off and a flicker of distress crosses her gaze again and suddenly Catra realizes maybe this girl is more vulnerable than a first glance revealed. Maybe Catra really _had _saved her from something awful. "—not…" She chews her lip and Catra wants to _do _something about that look in her eyes; to comfort her, but she doesn't. She doesn't know how. She just stands there with one hand still in her pocket, useless. The girl sighs. "…yeah. Just, thank you."

Catra still doesn't know what exactly to say or do, so she tries to make up for it by holding the girl's eyes, as compassionate as she can manage. She tries to communicate all the comfort and helpfulness she doesn't know how to give through that one look. She likes to think it works, a little. Also she just likes looking into those bright blue irises—she's never seen any quite like them. They seem to sparkle even though the lighting here in the hallway is crap.

She realizes for the first time that the girl might just interpret this as her staring like an ignoramus, so she breaks their gaze guiltily. She has to say something. She decides on: "Do you—do you live near here?" Hopefully that comes across like she's caring about the girl's safety, and not like she's going to be her next drunk nighttime stalker. If she lives close, Catra would be glad to escort her home. Maybe she'd get the chance to actually shank a creep along the way. She imagines it would be satisfying.

But, "At the other end of campus," the girl replies with a grimace. Briefly Catra wonders why she would have run this way rather than toward home. A rude trick of fate, probably.

"Do you want me to walk you there? Or…"

"No, I—I'll be fine," the girl says, _so _unconvincingly it's almost funny, except it's not. She's staring at the concrete between her feet, shadows behind those beautiful blue eyes. "I…" she trails off. Catra's heart does a painful lurch. It's been ninety seconds and already she wants nothing more than to whisk all this worry and uncertainty and fear off the other girl's shoulders.

Is she really that weak for cute girls? Or is it just this one?

She shakes off that thought, because it's really pretty inappropriate right now.

However, something still makes her say, hesitantly, "Do you…want to come in? My roommates are all in bed." She realizes too late that that might sound threatening instead of comforting, given the circumstances, so she adds hastily, "…so, they won't bother you." There's another pause and again she feels the sudden need to fill it, to reassure this girl, to protect her even though they'd hardly just met. "We have a couch," she says. "You could use it. Or I could use it, if you want my bed. Or—"

"It's okay," the girl says, raising her hands against the flood of words spilling from Catra's nervous lips, a little smile softening the gesture. "I, uh…yeah. I can take the couch. If—if that would be okay." She falters. "I don't want to be a burden. Just, the way home—" She hugs herself and her eyes flick of their own accord down the path the frat boy had taken out of the building, and she doesn't need to finish for Catra to understand.

"Yeah," she says instantly. "Yeah, of course." She turns back to the door and keys in her code as fast as her slightly shaky fingers will allow, and then she opens it and waves the girl in, not really sure where is safe to rest her eyes at this point. "Sorry it's kind of messy," she says on impulse, even though the room isn't really.

The girl hums dismissively as she steps inside, apparently thinking the same. She keeps her arms wrapped around herself and makes a beeline for the couch while trying to look like she isn't. Catra feels a pang of sympathy for her. She lets the door swing closed and leans back against it, resolving to give the girl space until she asks otherwise.

As the girl settles onto the cushions, Catra watches her with her gaze soft and unsure. She doesn't really want to force the girl to relive all the trauma of what just happened, but at the same time she probably ought to know, you know, literally _anything _about the girl she'd just invited into her home.

So, awkwardly, she begins, "So…"

"He's a friend of my brother's," the girl says without waiting for her to finish, because what else would the question be? She picks up one of Catra's throw pillows, one decorated with galaxies and cats, and hugs it to her chest as if in self-defense. Then she snorts abruptly. "Well. Probably a former friend, after this." Her eyes go a little distant and she elaborates: "They have a frat party going on. I was helping my brother set it up 'cause I'm supposed to do a certain number of 'events' to get a good grade in this dumb seminar I'm taking and—" She breaks off as if realizing that she was rambling. "—yeah."

Catra feels an odd mix of relief, outrage and sharpening protectiveness at her explanation. Her brother, huh? Where was he when his sister was getting chased down the street by his drunk, horny buddy?

Catra doesn't comment on that. No, instead she jabs, "So he's not some jilted ex?" and immediately regrets it, because that's worse. Much worse. She supposes she meant it as a joke. It isn't all that funny. Nothing about this is.

"No." The girl narrows her eyes just slightly and something about the way she says it seems deliberate, but in the moment Catra can't figure out why. She doesn't seem offended, though, which is good. But she does change tack. Her eyes go earnest as she looks at Catra and the blue is riveting. "Anyway, thank you. Seriously. I don't know what I would have done. I thought someone would have heard me yelling sooner," she says tightly.

"I'm sure plenty heard," responded Catra with sudden venom. The girl's brow furrows, and Catra pushes off the door and moves to the counter to drop her keychain there with a sharp _slikk _that matches the grate in her voice: "People heard. They're just pussies. They won't stand up to anyone if it means they're risking their own neck."

She talks as if she knows from experience. Probably because she does.

The girl's eyes cut to the scars on Catra's arms for half a second before meeting her split ones again. She looked somber. Not surprised, but not happy about hearing the truth. "Yeah," is all she says, softly. Then her voice drops even lower and she adds, heartfelt, "Thanks for being different, then."

Oh. That's a little _too _heartfelt for Catra, who's survived her whole childhood by pushing people away and guarding her own heart like a treasure hoard. Not that there's much worth treasuring in there, but it's all she has. So she looks away uncomfortably, trying not to let her face show a visible grimace. She crosses her arms over her chest. A defense mechanism. A habit. But still, she says, "You're welcome."

Because she's damaged, not rude.

She can feel the girl's gaze warm on her skin even while she's turned away. Catra can imagine the blue, piercing into her, the color of the sky in the morning. Watching when no one else did. The silence and the watching lasts a while. Finally the girl speaks up, gently, and Catra wonders how far into her being those sky-blue orbs have seen. "Do you want to…?" Catra looks up to see her gesture tentatively to the space beside her on the couch. She's chewing her lip again, looking worried. Worried about Catra? That's new. "I don't want to push you out of your own home."

Catra snorts quietly. "You're not. Don't worry," she assures. What she thinks is, no, that's not what she's concerned about. She can handle people butting into her living space; she's had to share it her whole life, after all. But what Catra _doesn't _know how to handle is this kind of gentleness. She's not used to it. She can't think of a time she's ever experienced it, for that matter. Some instinctual part of her protests against it, claiming instead, _no, I'm supposed to be the protector here! _But the reasoning part of her figures at the same time, what's the harm? so she shrugs, pads across the carpet to the couch, and sits. She still leaves a generous space between them.

The girl doesn't press her. Instead she curls up against the other armrest and sort of folds into herself in the respectful awkwardness of borrowing someone's space. Catra thinks it's impossibly sweet. She leans against her own armrest and faces the girl, studying her form like it's a subject for one of her art projects, something like fondness in her heart. Her mind is fairly reeling. How can she feel this way about someone she just met a few minutes ago? It's not just that she has a crush, although there is definitely a draw to that rare, sunny smile and those rippling muscles and those peerless blue eyes and—Catra cuts that thought off, because it's not the point. The point is, she feels a _connection _to this girl that goes deeper than just rescuing her from some slob at knifepoint tonight. She feels like she's known her forever. She feels like she wouldn't mind knowing her forever from today. She feels like they're…_supposed _to know each other, somehow. Call her crazy or call it fate, but to Catra it felt like unmistakable fact.

In regarding the girl curiously, deliberately, in the wake of those thoughts, Catra notices the goosebumps trailing over the girl's toned arms and internally winces. Entrapta, one of her roommates, insisted on keeping the room cool to provide maximum comfort for her pet axolotls, which lived in a tank beside the sink. It unfortunately did not double as comfortable for the humans living here.

So, "Here," Catra mumbles and lifts the fleece blanket off the armrest beside her to pass to the girl. It's hers, and she's embarrassed to admit that it's covered in her coarse brown hairs from seasons of use without much cleaning, but it's all she has to offer.

The girl looks a little surprised that Catra noticed, but she takes the blanket gratefully. She might have even smiled a little at the fact that it was patterned with all the evolutions of Eevee. Catra flushed. So what if she was a bit of a nerd?

Once the girl is wrapped in the blanket she slides a glance at Catra that's almost shy and lifts the free corner in offering. "You're cold, too," she guesses meekly.

Catra feels her shoulders start to hike up in embarrassment, but forces them back down. There's no reason to be embarrassed about this. Only…is it that obvious? Her feet _are _pretty stark white with the cold, but no one usually notices things like that. Or cares. This girl, though…she's different.

She takes the blanket.

It's so much warmer underneath that Catra can almost pass off her furious blush as a product of its toasty embrace. Almost. More likely it's a product of the girl's sudden closeness to her, and the fact that her heat is so, so comforting. It feels like coming home, fitting right into the flow of Catra's thoughts from a moment ago.

That profound feeling of _rightness _makes her a bit bold and before the feeling can leave her, Catra speaks up, making sure there's still a good, obvious dose of humor in her voice (just in case) when she quips, "So, if we're going to be snuggling and all now, I guess I should at least know your name."

The girl laughs, barely more than a hum in her throat but it makes Catra's heart soften all the same. She wonders what a real laugh would sound like coming from her. She resolves to find out, someday. For some reason she feels like that day might happen sooner rather than later.

Those eyes shift to her and they're affectionate, too. "It's Adora."

_That's pretty, _Catra thinks, but that's not the sort of thing she ever says, so she keeps it to herself and ducks her head to try to hide the blush that comes to her cheeks for thinking it. "I'm Catra," she says instead.

"That's pretty," the girl observes. Catra looks up sharply and something in her expression must have tipped the girl—Adora—off, because she smiles, genuinely. The motion makes her blue eyes sparkle and it must have been the most perfect thing Catra's ever seen.

And Catra smiles back, thinking maybe she should be grateful that that horny creep chased this girl here to her doorstep tonight—not grateful to _him, _of course, but to whoever was out there determining her fate, because this Adora seemed like she could be nothing less than a gift—_her _gift—someone different from all the rest. Someone she was willing to give a chance. Someone she thought maybe she could open up her heart to, someday, because she _cared._

And the way their shoulders touch under the blanket and make that close-guarded heart skip just a little too fast—the way Adora leans into her rather than pulling away—Catra thinks maybe, just maybe, the other girl felt like Catra really was different, too.


End file.
